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Winds of the West
Winds of the West My name is Tassos Laetten Galbaith. I . . am different. Not just as a demigod, but . . I'm not sure what I am . . I'm not like the others, and my parents aren't quite who you'd expect, either. 'Chapter 1: My School Is Invaded' A small crowd, nothing to worry about. Just take a deep breath and ignore the crock about “seeing them in their underwear” because we all know that never helps! I swallowed the lump in my throat, and it felt like it lodged even deeper down. Great, now what, genius? I took a deep breath as I walked across the stage. It wasn't that big, this wasn't a professional concert. Just a little something a local hangout set up. A talent show, of sorts. Different musical acts come up and play or rap or whatever. To each his own, you know? It didn't even have to be anything original! I mean, my band was just gonna do some covers. Anyway, I always got stage fright right before any kind of show. My drama teacher, Mr. Downs, says that I have the kind of stage fright that's “good for the actor or performer”. He's right, too. In the end, it always pushes me to do my best and, most importantly, get the show ''over ''with! I tried to remind myself of this little detail as I took hold of the mic. Behind me, I heard the guys starting to play. Just a grind through the speakers, no legible notes yet. The audience– what, maybe fifty people at most?– started to cheer as they recognized the opening of one of my favorite songs by Rob Zombie. The music started, and my heart began to pound along with the steady guitar. I positioned my lips a good distance from the mic and started to sing in my best immitation of the legendary Zombie, “'I speak the truth, I dare not tell a lie. One child is in fits, the other child dies. Now the yellow bird sits upon her finger, the yellow bird a specter lost to linger.'” the guitars grew heavier almost instantly, and I let loose with the chorus, “'God hates the Lords of Salem! No once can ever save them! God hates the Lords of Salem! No one can destroy them!'” With the cheers mixed in, it almost sounded like the track from the album. Rob's voice had always been one of my top three favorites in vocalists. Simple, yet powerful – and evil, too, in my opinion. But we were just warming up. As the song closed, and the lead guitarist began to play the erratic ending of the song I picked up a bottle of water and took a quick drink. The next song was going to be a lot heavier. It started as I sat the bottle down, and I cleared my head as best and quickly as I could. I got back to the mic and broke out into the much heavier singing of The Showdown's song “Aries: I Am Vengeance”. “'Apocalypse juggernaut, engine of war, piercing your chest with pure hate! Twisting within the great heart of all things, exist only to obliterate!'” this song's raw rage always got my blood pumping, and even then adrenaline was coursing through my veins, dispelling all unease for being in front of a crowd. I contorted my face in anger as I belted out the opening for the first chorus, “'A cavern of stars! The swallowing maw!'” I raised my free hand as I took the mic from the stand and began to walk around the stage, trying to imitate what I'd seen live heavy metal singers do. “'Feed of filth and greed! A tower of hate, the tyrant awaits! This juggernaut must feed!'” The crowd was loving it, and so was I. I was roaring, then, an evil grin on my face. The sheer power of the lyrics pulsing through me. “'I will strike with the vengeance of a thousand hearts, at a world that drew first blood! Pulsing with scorn, a nightmare made flesh! I am vengeance!'” I practically screamed the last part. Raw, animal energy filled me; a cross between anger and sick joy. We came to one of my favorite parts of the song. “'Pulsing with scorn, a nightmare made flesh! I am-'” I paused, and the guitar slowed for a moment. And then, with as guttaral a growl as I could muster, I roared into the mic, “'VENGEANCE!'” and the crowd went nuts. “'I am scorn! I am re-venge! I am'' war!” We reached the final stanza of the song. The intensity of the guitar didn't let up, but it did slow as the ending climax arrived. “'I will burn with the heat of a thousand suns, and scorch the very gates of Hell! Pulsing with scorn, a nightmare made flesh! I am vengeance!'” the guitars cut off halfway through the last word, leaving just my guttural voice lingering for a few seconds, and then I stopped. I pumped my free fist into the air and yelled through the cheers of the crowd. The lead guitarist, a buddy of mine named Richard, took hold of his mic – which he used for backing vocals – and called out to the crowd, “All right! We've got one more 'cause the suits runnin' this place said only three.” there were growing “boo's” from the crowd, and Rich flashed me a grin, which I returned. I brought the mic to my lips and said, “For our last song, we've picked something just as heavy, but with a little more melody. A favorite of mine by the band Trivium,” cheers erupted just with the band's name, “that's right!” I shouted through a laugh, pumping my fist. “Everyone, put your hands together for Titanic's rendition” Titanic being the name of our band – and no, we didn't mean the ship you twits, “of 'He Who Spawned the Furies'!” Rich led the rest of the band members in the opening. As I looked out into the crowd my eye caught someone, and I froze. Time felt like it was slowing down, which was weird, considering. I saw a girl at the very back of the building. It looked like she'd just stepped inside and had been about to leave when she had heard the name of the song and paused. I had seen her before that same day. The only day I'd ever seen her in my life, and yet she caught my eye for one reason: Just like the first time, she seemed like she didn't belong. * * * Well, in order to make more sense, I think I should go back to the beginning. Which beginning? Well, more specificly the start of that day. Though that would still leave some questions, right? To start, my name is Tassos. Er . . . Tassos Laetten Galbaith. I looked up my first name a few years ago, it means “resurrection” in Greek. Cool, huh? Yeah, I don't really care, either. 'Course, the only reason I have a middle or last name was because it was with me when I was given to an orphanage. I had tried to ask who had been the one to present me to them, they had only been able to describe him as “tall and dark”, but that he wasn't my father – according to what he'd said, which was that he was a friend of my old man. And then he'd said, “Ask no questions, receive no hardships.” I was sixteen years old, and a junior in High School. The orphanage said that I'd been left with a trust fund, and that had allowed me to be sent to boarding schools when I was older. I'd tried looking up anything on my parents, or who they could be. Nothing. Absolutely no information that even sounded remotely like my possible parents. Seems like something from a crack drama film, don't it? Even so, it's the truth. I am utterly alone, family-wise. I had been for, well, sixteen years, or so. I made friends with slight difficulty, I guess. I'm not very social naturally – I've been called standoffish at first glance, but then most said I tended to get better once I warmed up to people, which is harder than it sounds. My reply was always, “Isn't that the way it is in most cases?” It was late May, the last day of school before summer break for us “rich kids” in the fancy boarding school in New Jersey. I loved this state. It was beautiful, and had that great “New England” feel to it. The school I went to wasn't very big, but it was comfortable. I had been able to take a number of classes that previous schools had not offered, so it had a “freer” feel to it, if you will. As well, the state was famous for its education system. It also served an interest for me personally because of its rich folk history. I love mythology as well as folklore. So, please, tell me you've already guessed. If you haven't, well . . I spake of the Jersey Devil. The thirteenth child of Mother Leeds(Muahahahahaha!). During one break I went down to the Pine Barrens – which isn't even a mile away from the small town my school is near – with six of my friend and we “searched” for the Devil. Three of us scared the life out of the other four! It was awesome, though. I made a promise to myself that when I had graduated from college I would move back to New Jersey permanently. Amongst other places, I had been at a school in Maine, one in New York, and another in Rhode Island. Out of all of these I still felt most at home in the land of the Jersey Devil. The morning of our last day of school was one of those rare days when I got up almost as soon as I woke up. I remember the beams of light filtering in from the blinds over my window – I leave them open at night, but I always seem to wake up at like one in the morning and close them before the sun rises. I yawned, scratched, stretched– almost fell out of bed in the process– before my mind finally registered what day it was. I wake up quickly, usually. Most of the time my brain seems to deliberately slow down on weekdays that I have classes – so, whenever there isn't a holiday of some sort – as a way to tempt me to lay my head back down, and close my eyes with a content smile. But, some crazy side of me always strangles the side of my mind that I want to agree with just before cuffing me on the back of the head. Gibbs would be proud of that side, I think. In any case, there are days – like that day – where my brain wakes up instantly. Where even that evil little side of me that usually hates mornings says, “Rise, Tassos, awake! It's a day before a break(Hey, that rhymed!)!” and doesn't slow me down like a slug not avoiding salt. I got up and showered. As I was drying off I wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at myself. I always do, it seems. It's like I'm unconsciously trying to see what my parents might have looked like through what I'' look like. I guess I hope that the older I get the more distinguished those looks will get. My hair seems to be predominantly brown – I can't tell which shade – but is mixed with silvery-white strands that either mix with the brown ones or stand out completely. So it has a dull look to it, like battleship gray iron coated with a thin layer of brown rust. It's not too long, maybe to about my jawline. Usually I just leave it be and let it hang; shaggy and wiry. Sometimes, though, I'll tie it back into a ponytail to keep it out of my eyes. My eyes are even weirder, if I do say so myself. They seem like a mix of gray and maybe a dull yellow. So they have a milky, cloudy look to them. Like polluted water, one girl had said before thinking. After I dressed I pocketed an elastic in case I needed to tie my hair back. I shrugged on a jacket before heading outside. There were already a few students out in the hall. Most were just leaning against the walls or standing in the doors of their dorms, talking and being lazy. It was the last day of school, so, why not? I headed down the hall and knocked on another door. Hearing no reply, I pressed my ear against the wood and heard the sounds of a TV on. Rolling my eyes, I pushed the door open. Two of my friends – Derrik and Ray – were sitting, in the dark, and staring like zombies at a plasma screen. Which were standard with rooms. Xbox 360's, however, weren't. “Morning.” I said. Their replies were somewhere along the lines of, “Eh.” and “Mern'n.” I frowned as I leaned against the door, “Oh yeah, video games are healthy. Aren't y'all hungry?” Derrik pulled an amazing feat by liberating a hand and picking up a crumpled donut box with a few sad little donuts still uneaten inside, “We're covered.” he informed me, sounding like a brainwashed cultist. Nobody ever listened when I said Bungie was taking over our minds. “Riiiiight.” I drawled skeptically. “Let me just say: Food is important, as is the real world.” and just to stab them I said, “You can die tragically defending the planet Reach later.” as I closed the door the two started to counter my taunt. Just before the door shut I heard Ray saying, “Go-” ''click. Everything afterwards was just garbled mumbling. Outside, the sun was shining cheerily in the early morning. A thin layer of fog filled the air, painting distant buildings and trees with an eery, silver-white cloud. The beams cutting through gaps in between trees, leaves, and branches were comfortably warm. But there was a cool breeze blowing past me, making my hair shiver stiffly and my skin prickle ever-so-slightly. The cafeteria was a building all on its own . . sorta. The upper level was where the kitchen and mess hall were. Underneath the cafeteria was a gym used by the basketball team. The actual PE classes were held in another – not as nice – gym, which was the bottom floor of the arts building. I grabbed a tray of food and one of those thin, styrofoam cups filled with steaming, black coffee. I tossed a few packets of real sugar and dairy creamer onto my tray – and stuffed extras into my jacket pocket – before sitting down at a table. My friend Rich was already there, and he promptly snatched some of my sugar and creamer. I pulled out my extras and brandish them with a smug grin, “I come prepared, my good leech.” I said. Rich laughed as he poured the sugar and creamer into his own coffee, “Yes, and I thank you for supplying my condiments again.” He said it every day, because he did it every day. Richard D'arc was an unusual character. Sandy blonde hair and lightly tanned skin. His eyes are an oddly shocking blue-green in color. His greatest strengths were in the arts. Mostly music, though. He was an amazing vocalist, and an even better musician. A multi-instrumentalist. He was also good with visiual arts; painting, drawing, even carving and sculpting. We met a few days into the school year, as he and I took drama and mythology together. He was the guy who'd gotten me to try out as a vocalist, and had even taught me how to play the guitar. He a year older than me, but much more talented in pretty much every way imaginable. We had been close friends all through the school year. He had a wilder, much more energetic streak to him. Not to mention an evil, though mostly annoying, sense of humor. He was like a walking encyclopedia on musical artists and playwrights. In fact, he had a tendency to randomly recite Shakespeare. One of his favorite pastimes besides his music was playing pranks or being an idiot in general. One example: Not even halfway through the year he had gained an interest in the trampolines used by the school's gymnastics class. He'd managed to goad me into helping him get the more reasonably-sized ones outside to stack them up. With a big one on the bottom, and then smaller and smaller on the way up like a tower. Stupid, yes, but he seemed so proud of the idea that I couldn't bring myself to say so. Anyway, he decided he wanted to jump on one for a while after stacking it. I coulda told him this would happen, but, evil guy that I am, I wanted to see him fall on his butt. And he did! He did a backflip and came down a little too far from the edge. More like . . past it altogether. The best part was his face right before he fell; a look of utter confusion that had me on the ground as he hung in the air just before he bit the dust. I mixed my sugar and creamer into my coffee and sipped it slowly. It wasn't high quality, and it tasted bitter-sweet, and creamy-watery. I had gotten used to it pretty fast early on in the year. I shoveled flavorless grits into my mouth, and as I attempted to add taste with salt I asked, “So, you know where you're going after this place lets out?” “Long Island.” he answered through a mouthful of cereal. He washed it down with a mouthful of steaming hot coffee and asked me the same. I examined another spoonful of grits and answered, “No idea.” in a flat voice. One thing that Rich had always found funny was that I could sing like a goddess – I threatened to smash his precious guitar when he'd first said that, 'cause it wasn't even near true – but that half the time my voice had no life to it whatsoever. Rich watched as I grudgingly ate that single bite of my breakfast and reached for my plate. With lightning fast reflexes – used to him doing this – I had the prongs of the fork I'd been palming with my left hand just an inch over his hand. “You're getting good, man.” he laughed, withdrawing warily. “Yeah, no sudden movements.” I sneered. After a few minutes of eating silently I sighed and set my spoon down. I sighed and picked up my coffee, “I have no idea how to feel about this.” I said. “'Bout what, exactly?” Rich asked, though he sounded like he didn't care. “Leaving.” I said dully. My tone – or lack thereof, more than likely – made him pause and look up almost comically. A grin slowly spread across his face, and my expression changed to apprehensive. “Aw,” he said teasingly, “you're gonna miss me?” “Not on your life!” I shot back, fighting to keep a straight face. He reached out as if to pinch my cheek and I swatted his hand away. “Don't try that again.” He started laughing quietly, “You're blushing.” he pointed out. No, I mean, he literally pointed at me with his spoon. My eyes darkened, “That,” I growled under my breath so that only he could hear, “is be-freaking-cause people already think something's going on between us. I don't need you furthering that rumor.” What was I saying, I was already sure he'd started the bloody thing! He practically dropped his spoon onto the table and covered his mouth with a hand, but he couldn't stop his shoulders from shaking as he laughed to himself. I rolled my eyes and sank further into my chair, leaning my head forward so that my hair fell like a curtain over my eyes. Rich lowered his hand and took a deep breath, “Don't be like that, Tass!” he chided, not unkindly. “It's not good for a rep to be seen hiding behind your hair everytime something embarassing happens.” “You're something embarassing.” I retorted, my hair rocking as my breath encountered the wiry barrier. “And a pain to be around, too.” I added, sitting up. “Then why hang around me?” I thought about it for a moment, brushing my hair out of my eyes, “Pity friendship?” Rich laughed. It was a little louder than it should have been, and I suddenly felt eyes on our little table. “You did that on purpose.” “No duh.” Richard snickered. I was tempted to throw what was left of my coffee at him, but instead, I downed the rest – and made Rich laugh when I burned myself – as the bell rang and we got up to go. Even though we still had classes, we didn't expect any work. My first class of the day was drama. It was Richard's, too. The classroom was like an amphitheater in shape. With rows of seats rising up above each other in a circle on tiers. Stairs led down at intervals to the circular stage at the very bottom, in the very middle of the room. Richard and I sat with the other students in this class. Over the year we'd grown close as a group and had gotten together to plan and perform little acts or shows for the rest of the school. The room was echoing with chatter when Mr. Downs stepped in. We didn't hear him, or see him. He just stood like a statue at the top of the room . . listening. He got our attention by shutting the door. The resounding BANG! made us all jump and turn around. As he came down the steps he said, “Let's get off the subject of mothers, students, as I just got off of yours.” he said in a dry voice. I started laughing along with the rest of the students until Mr. Downs cleared his throat, looking at all of us through his cliché spectacles. “Now then,” he started, once we had all quieted down, “since today is your last day, I've decided that we shall do impov-” a chorus of groans and pleas not to made him frown. “It's either that, or-” he paused and looked at us evilly as he waited until the last of the groans had stopped. “It's either that,” he started over, “or, we recite Shakespearean monologues for the remainder of the hour.” I glanced at Rich, knowing from his expression, and experience, that he wouldn't mind that one bit. A girl, Tiffany, raised her hand and he nodded to her, “We'll be more than happy to do improv today, Mr. Downs.” she said sweetly. The guy next to her was about to protest until she elbowed him in the side. He grunted and then fell silent. Mr. Down smiled with an expression as dry as his voice, and said, “Good.” He picked up a stack of notecards and a bucket of pens, both of which he passed around. “Write down a peculiar or humorous scene you would like to see played out, fold them, and the put them in the hat when I pass it around.” Most of our improv games came from the show we had all come to love and revere: Whose Line Is It, Anyway? “Does he have to tell us the instructions every single time?” Rich asked quietly. He didn't, however, account for the accoustics in the room. The sounds of chuckling made him freeze, and look up slowly. Mr. Downs cocked an eyebrow and met his gaze. Rich swallowed, “Hey, Mr. . . .” the teacher's look darkened, and Rich lowered his head, “I see MacBeth in my near future, Tassy.” “Don't call me that, and I can't say I'm surprised.” I grumbled. I heard his chair grunt on the floor and it registered too late what he was going to do. I hissed suddenly when his foot met my shin with a vengeance. “Bloody murder!” I growled through grit teeth, giving him my best evil glare. The hat was coming around, and as he dropped his folded card into it he said, “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio.” “That's Hamlet, genius.” I said as he handed the hat to me. I passed it on and said, “It doesn't even fit the situation.” Rich shrugged, an innocent expression on his face, “So? It just felt right to me.” I shook my head and looked away, trying not to laugh as I hid behind my hair. I heard him laugh and knew he'd seen it anyway. Once Mr. Downs had the hat again he looked up and called out, “Tiffany, Mark, Carlos, and Laetten. You four come down and start for us.” Mr. Downs instructed. Rich was the only guy at school to call me by my first name. I insisted that teachers called me by my middle name. As I stood I pulled out my elastic and tied my hair back. I was shrugging off my coat when Rich mumbled, “Break a leg.” I smirked and threw my coat at him as I passed, saying, “I'll break your neck.” Now, I really do love that show. In case it's already slipped your mind, I refer to Whose Line?. Most of the time we try to mimic the comedy of the situations, but at the same time we try to come up with our own scenes. I felt nervous just walking down to the stage. My heart was pounding in my ears, and I felt like I was going to start shivering. Even taking a deep breath didn't seem to work. “People you wouldn't want calling at one in the morning.” Mr. Downs said, reading off of one of the cards. I rolled my eyes, thinking it sounded lame. We had all taken positions at different sides of the stage, Mark and Carlos even jumping up to sit on the lowest banisters. Mark nodded to me, and I nodded back. The signal that he was going to incorporate me into his scene and that I understood. He lifted his hand like a phone, “Ring, ring!” I mimed picking up and yawned a sleepy, “'Ello?” For a few seconds he pretended to be breathing heavily, “Good morning, Laetten.” he said in his best imitation of our drama teacher, whom, I noticed, was staring down his nose at Carlos intently. “I was just calling to inform you of your essay due tomorrow on the history of Roman theater. And that I was hoping you,” he paused to take a creepy, raspy breath, “that you would be in attendance on the morrow.” he said, using the term that some of my classmates had made fun of Mr. Downs for using. “How . . um . .” he paused again, and then asked, “what are you wearing.” “Ahem!” Mr. Downs cleared his throat loudly, the signal Carlos had gone too far. The look he was giving Carlos right then had a subtlety to it that made it even more terrifying. “Click!” I hung up, quickly, ending the scene. The scary part was, that was based off true events(Coming this summer!). Meaning, Mr. Downs was notorious for calling his students the night before a big assignment was due in order to “remind” them. It was so annoying that Rich and I started unplugging our phones the nights before essays were due. Other guys has started making jokes as to “alterior” motives. The rest of the class passed fairly quickly – with one interesting moment where Rich played a woman on a dating show – and then the bell rang, releasing us to our next classes. My next teacher promptly handed us worksheets. My train of thought was: What maniacal master of evil gives out work on the last day of school? I voiced my concern – sorta, “This is just pointless busy work, isn't it?”I asked, and he slowly turned to face me. He seemed agitated, and I felt sorry for the guy he tossed the next sheet to. It spun like a rectangular blade and smacked him in the throat. Very reminiscent of that disastrous Wild Wild West movie. “Yes, Mr. Galbaith.” he answered irritably. More than likely he was irked that I had uncovered his devious scheme, “How very astute of you.” he said, in a very “Professor Snape” sorta way. Once he'd turned around the girl behind me tapped me on the shoulder. I leaned back as she leaned forward to whisper warningly, “I'd watch your back, if I were you.” I made a face and craned my head to reply, “Why? He's an English teacher?” I was able to see her eyebrow arch, “Well, if you go to the library, don't walk underneath the Encyclopedia Britannicas.” I winced and sat back up. She had a point. Those things were huge. And, coincidentally, just the right height for a pencil-built, middle aged, balding man to push out onto the head of an “unsuspecting” sophomore-soon-to-be-senior. Therefore, cutting out the “soon-to-be” anything. My third class of the day was, luckily, devoid of heartless English teachers who only wished to bestow upon our weary minds the burden of work. The once horrific cell in which we were forced to learn of numbers and equations– that burned the mind– became a simple, drab room. Instead of muffled curses and pencils scratching away in silence, the room was filled with low chatter and the sound of a movie playing. I didn't pay much attention to the film, and wound up falling asleep at my desk. It's not like it mattered, anyway. My fourth hour came right before lunch. And by this time my stomach was already growling uncomfortably. A science class. Rows of blacktop tables and high chairs. Sinks, rising spigots, and metal spouts for gas were built right into the desktops at similar intervals. I shared this class with Derrik and Ray. Personally, I have very little interest in games. I have an active side, and can't sit still long enough to actually play one. That was one of the reasons I took up Rich's offer to teach me to play the guitar. It was physically stimulating; mentally, too! But, for the whole hour, I had to sit and listen to the two hardcore gamers – which, to me, calling a gamer “hardcore” seems a little like an oxymoron. I decided to say so, and Derrik's genius reply was something along the lines of, “Yeah, well, you're an oxymoron!” Ha . . fricking . . ha. I guess my expression turned to “dry as Hell”, which was a term coined by Rich for that particular glare, because the two flinched. I smiled inwardly, deciding not to ruin the effect by doing so externally. They went back to their conversation, a little awkwardly at first, though. Another moment of satisfaction. * * * Lunch was a relief. Pizza with soda. One thing I liked about this school was its lax policies on the lunch menu, I guess you could say. They fed us food! Not the fake meats and under-, over-cooked sides that most public school students had to choke down without even realizing it. Or that they had just gotten eerily used to. Then again, maybe I'm just a spoiled dandy. After eating I headed over to a single-story metal building. It had a flat roof, and was rectangular in shape. The front door had to be slid to the side, and a chain and unlocked padlock rattled raucously against the steel as I opened and closed it behind me. The inside of the building was a long hall with doors on either side, spaced evenly along the way. Metal shelves had been placed along the hall, as well, and were covered with old metal parts and other junk. I went into the third door to the left, and into a room filled with an assortment of old instrument parts. A full set of drums sat in one corner of the room, and three stands holding electric guitars – one being a bass – were standing up by amps. One of them was bright gold in color, with silver around the edge. A beautiful Vox Phantom, in its distinctive, pentagonal shape. Rich's guitar. Out of habit I picked the instrument up and turned it over in my hand, holding the neck carefully so as not to drop it(like an idiot). On the back, in big, white letters was the word “Evolution”. And no, it wasn't the name of the guitar. It was Rich's pathetic stage name. When he'd first told me that – after I initially mistook it for the guitar's name – I'd given him one of my “dry as Hell” looks, as he coined it, and said, “What kinda name is 'Evolution' for a guitarist?” Rich had shrugged, “I dunno,” one of his classic grins brightened his features, and he said, “what kind of stage name is 'Resurrection' for a vocalist?” I'd stiffened and glared at him, “I don't need a stage name!” I'd insisted, quite emphatically. “So . . you think that Tassos sounds better?” I'd almost pummeled him with his own guitar. I flipped the guitar back around and plugged it in. I checked to make sure it was still tuned – like it never was, Rich kept this thing in perfect tune like a monk would keep a sacred idol clean – and took a deep breath. I glanced down once, making sure my fingers were in position. I exhaled and closed my eyes and began to play. Let me start by saying this: Eddie Van Halen is a god. Rich preaches about the classic masters like the gospel. Slash, Angus, Hendrix, EVH. While their works aren't as hard as many say they are, they're still awesome and great to practice with. I'd been forced to learn their methods, and it had paid off. Out of all of them, I loved Eddie's “Eruption” the most. I didn't need to look at sheet music more than once, and sometimes not at all! I'd always had a great memory, and I could call up the lyrics for most songs I'd ever heard, too. The thing was, though– and this is where irony takes its toll– I have never once played through the nearly two minute studio version solo. I could get more than halfway through with my eyes closed, the tapping method coming just as naturally as breathing. But then, somewhere along the line . . I came to an abrupt stop and caught the strings to silence the distorted noise that emanated from the amp when I messed up. I opened my eyes to the sound of sarcastic clapping. Rich's face was a distorted mix of grinning and grimacing, “Lovely attempt, as always, my young apprentice.” I handed him the guitar when he strode into the room and he broke out into the solo with a dramatic, full-body twist. I folded my arms over my chest and sighed, waiting patiently until he had finished. “But,” he continued, “no one can hardly do it like he masters.” “Which you so arrogantly compare yourself to?” I pointed out. Rich looked offended, and my eardrums nearly exploded when he hit a high note and held it for a few seconds. “Okay, okay!” I yelled, sticking a finger in my ear to stop the ringing. “I take it back.” Rich smiled triumphantly, and I knew a smug comment was coming. “Well, you didn't have to.” he said. “I did that because you were right, but, thanks anyway!” he said cheerily. “Your arrogance is overwhelming.” I said dryly. “Not so, Tasso!” he replied in a pathetic attempt to rhyme. “My arrogance is fully in check.” I made a face and said, “That's the point, you idiot! Arrogance is all about not being able to hold yourself in check. Letting your ego swell to massive sizes.” Rich paused, concern written across his face. “What?” “I might need to stop inhaling so much helium.” was his answer. I threw up my arms and turned away in exasperation, but he continued to talk, “You know, I heard it's bad for your throat, too. Maybe I should-” I tuned him out and began muttering, “Someone dropped him on his head when he was a kid. Either that or he's desperate for attention. Someone dropped him on his head when he was a kid.” “Try, 'Hoochie mama'!” Rich suggested seriously. I shot him an evil look and rolled my eyes, “We gonna practice for tonight?” I asked. “Wait, tell me we got the spot, first.” Rich grinned and began shredding for emphasis, much to my chagrin, before saying, “We sure did!” at the same time as I did, though I said it with far less emotion. He frowned and said, “Don't bring me down, man. Don't . . just don't do it.” A local place, not too big, was gonna be doing a show including a few local groups, or lesser known traveling groups trying to get some popularity. We, meaning Titanic, were the youngest group to be accepted for the night. We had been approved for three songs only, though. Other groups, deemed “more professional”, had taken up the rest of the time slots. I decided to leave what he said be, and asked, “Are we gonna practice at all?” Rich shrugged and sat down on an old metal drum he dragged across the floor while cradling his guitar, “If the other three members of our illustrious little-” he paused to try and think of the term. “Quintet.” “That's it!” He snapped his fingers. “If they ever get here, yes, we'll practice something.” Almost like a signal, we heard the door slide open and shut. He grinned, “See?” The other three members of Titanic were Joseph Grange, Seth Donahue, and Ramsey “Ram's Head” Morrison. Respectively, they were the band's second guitarist, bassist, and drummer. Ramsey came into the room twirling drumsticks in both hands, obviously ready to practice. He and Rich were the two most talented members of our group, in my opinion, with Rich being better than all of us. Ramsey wore tattered punk clothes and had long, wavy metalhead hair. Almost like a wannabe Mike Portnoy. In contrast, Joseph wore jeans, a dress shirt, and a black blazer. His hair was neat and short, and he was a straight-A student. Seth was a laid back, sarcastic, girl-crazy psycho. He came in wearing a black baseball cap backwards over short, wispy brown hair, a black t-shirt, and too-big black pants. “What took you three?” Rich asked, pulling an annoyed expression. Knowing him, though, he was serious this time. Ramsey pointed at Joseph, “Lady's man here almost got knifed by some random girl on campus.” he said mockingly. Joseph went for the drumstick, but the drummer whipped it out of reach, “I did not! I was just trying to talk to her-” Seth snorted as he picked up his guitar and plugged it in, “Yeah, we know.” “Not what I meant, you pigheaded imbecile!” Joseph snapped, scowling at the bassist. He looked from Rich to me as he tried to explain, “I haven't ever seen her on campus before, okay? Ever! I was just curious.” he said, his voice softening toward the end. Ramsey did a short drumroll, “Curious if black was her natural-” “Ram!” I snapped, a look from me making him hold up his hands in surrender. “I yield, oh, he who hath wrath in thine eyes!” I rolled my eyes, “Whatever.” As Joseph plugged his guitar into his amp I asked, “What did Ramsey mean by 'knifed'? Was he serious?” Joseph averted his eyes ashamedly, “Yeah. She, uh . . reached for a dagger when I tried to talk to her.” Rich whistled, “Pyscho on the loose. Where was campus security?” Seth shrugged, “No idea. Barely noticed her myself till pretty boy pointed her out.” he said, pointing lazily at Joseph. “I guess all that 'Southern bravery' left him at the sight of a blade, eh, Jo?” Ramsey joked. Joseph eyed the drummer dangerously, “Hey, hey, now! Don't disrespect The-” “-Most Glorious State of Texas.” the rest of us finished in unison, already used to the term he used for his home state. Joseph blushed, “Yeah . . .” I rolled my eyes and turned to Rich, “We gonna play, already?” “Yeah, Rich,” Seth said, “what're we gonna play?” Rich drummed his fingers on the body of his Phantom, “Hm . . let's try something a little different. Maybe . . Dream Theater's 'The Count of Tuscany'?” I shook my head, despite Seth and Ram's enthusiasm towards the selection, “Hey, man, that's a good song, but . . I have two reasons why we should choose otherwise.” “Those would be?” Rich inquired. “One,” I began, “is that the song is nearly twenty minutes long!” “So?” Joseph asked. “We'll just play until a few minutes before the bell.” Rich nodded, “Exactly.” I frowned as Ram asked, “And the second would be?” I took a deep breath and said, “That I'm no James LaBrie.” Ramsey cocked an eyebrow, “That may be, but, M. Shadows isn't Ozzie Osbourne, but he pulled off 'Paranoid really well.” I frowned, working my mouth in indecision. I relented with a sigh, “Alright, I'll give it a shot. I guess we'll have to go without keyboards.” Joseph nodded as Rich prepared to start us off, “Just remember, Laetten: Less melody with the voice, if you can.” “Right.” I nodded. As Rich started plucking at his Phantom guitar I summoned up the lyrics from memory, and waited for my time to enter the song. * * * The sound of laughter accompanied the grating screech of the metal door as Joseph slid it open. I was thankful that he didn't seem to be enjoying this as much as Ramsey and Seth were. Rich was just smirking like the Devil and his eyes had a shine that said, “I'm laughing at you, but I'm ''trying to keep it a secret.” Wondering what they were laughing at? Well, to put it simply, I was right. I am not James LaBrie. In fact, I could barely mimic him at all. In'' fact!'' I seriously screwed up a song that I liked, and that I'll probably never listen to again out of utter shame. Rich shut the door behind us as Ramsey taunted me, “Oh, my god! Dude, I should have totally listened to you! I mean . . well, I guess Shadows isn't that far from Ozzie comparitavely, especially given the situation. But you!” he broke off in another gasping fit. I wanted to kick him. Hard. Or punch his lights out. Eh, maybe both. I'm not a picky guy. Joseph sighed and turned around, “Guys, give him a break, okay? I don't know what you have to joke about, Ram, seeing as how you can't sing to begin with.” Ramsey took a deep breath and nodded, “Yeah, I know that.” “'Aye, there's the rub.'” Rich quoted smugly, nudging me with his elbow. I squinted in thought, “A little out of context, there, Rich.” I said. Ramsey shrugged, “Eh, close enough. He's right, too. I know that I can't sing. I'm not even gonna try.” “Yeah, well, I didn't know I couldn't mimic LaBrie.” I muttered defensively. “Mm, but,” he prodded me with a drumstick and I swiped at it, threatening to snap it in half, “you should know your limits as well as I'' do, Laetten.” “Haven't you ever heard of the term 'learning'?” I asked him, sounding dubious. “Sure,” Ramsey nodded, “And, so, in light of that-” “Meaning, 'to save face',” Joseph clarified with a wink. Ramsey scowled but continued, “In light of that, I'll let you off. Just . . practice with other styles and try and see where your strengths and weaknesses lie vocally, you know?” I nodded disinterestedly, “Sure.” I hit something and almost fell. I would have, actually, had Rich not caught me. I blinked, confused, and looked up to see that the back of my head was a few inches over his belt, and that he was holding me by the arms. He grinned slyly. My eyes widened, “Don't you-” “Oops!” he said, stepping back and letting go. I hit the ground, not hard, and rolled to push myself up. I glared at Rich, and he smiled innocently, “Slipped.” he insisted. “My foot's gonna slip right up-” “Guys.” Joseph whispered. He sounded urgent. Nervous. I turned, and realized that he was the guy I'd run into, “What?” I asked. He whirled around and shushed me, “It's her!” he said, his eyes like dinner plates. I knit my brow, “Huh?” “''Her!” he said, more emphatic this time. It came to me suddenly: The girl from earlier! “Oh!” I gasped, my mouth forming a wide O shape. Joseph nodded and turned, pointing towards a thin cluster of trees on the school grounds. I stepped up beside him and saw her for the first time. Long black hair, braided into loose knots. Lightly tanned skin, lighter than Rich. She was wearing a silver parka, it looked like; and blue jeans. She couldn't have been any older than fourteen or fifteen. She had attacked Joseph? The thought passed through my mind with added absurdity. There was no way that that little girl could pose much of a threat, even with a weapon, I thought. But at the same time, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. Not in the creepy pedophile way, no. More like the analytical, studying way. Like I was trying to see past her. Almost as if there were something more to the girl, because I did have the odd feeling that there was more to her than meets the eye. Unfortunaly, Ramsey mistook my impromptu reverie. The next thing I heard was him crying dramatically, “Oh, no! He's got stars in his eyes!” in the midst of new laughter. He latched himself onto my left arm and then went limp, as if stricken with grief. Rich and Seth busted out laughing, and Joseph groaned. “Lemme go!” I roared, struggling to rid myself of the drummer's iron grip and to keep my balance. “Nay, nay! Not till that vixen has let go of thee!” he sobbed through laughter. I lost my footing about then. The last thing I saw of her before Ramsey and I took a little tumble was her shooting us a look that seemed to be brimming with disgust and revulsion. And then I saw the sky. The sky and the branches overhead. For a moment I focused on that. How beautiful it looked. The pale blue overhead, the green leaves bordering the blue, growing from the pale gray and brown of the tree bark. And then Ramsey's laughter tore through and invaded my mind. I groaned inwardly and sat up. Ram was still on the ground, propping himself up limply as he laughed. Scowling, I scooped up a handful of earth and pelted him in the back of the head. He yelped, and then laugher harder. Joseph helped me to my feet, and Rich clapped me hard on the back. I had not been braced, and when I say 'hard', I mean hard! “Bloody murder!” I hissed, stumbling away from the impact. I turned and stared at him, “What are you made of, metal?” “Not all of me.” Rich said with a sly grin. I scoffed and turned away, “That's wonderful.” I paused and glanced back at him quickly, “Or . . it may be a self-inflicted insult.” Rich furrowed his brow for a moment, “Darn.” The bell rang, and we parted. Rich and I stayed together. We shared our next class: Mythology. So, who wants to hear a little more about me? Yeah, that's right, don't everyone stand up at once– why do I even try? To get to the point; I absolutely love history. American history? Um . . it bores me. Overextended and repetitive. I'm not unpatriotic or anything, it's just that, well, to me, it just seems nowhere near as interesting as the histories of the European nations and empires. Most notably ancient empires and civilizations. From the Akkadian Empire to the Ottoman Empire, and to the much more recent – comparatively – British Empire. So, in retrospect, you can see why American history, when compared to all that rich and vibrant history on the other side of the world, seems utterly bland. But for me the three empires I'm most interested in from least to most are as follows: Roman/Byzantine Empire, Russian Empire, and the Hellenistic Empire. Okay, so the Russian Empire isn't as old as the other two, why do I care? I still love it! Our mythology teacher was one Mr. Boris Mystral. He was an older man with shaggy, curly dark brown hair and beard. He was a very stern, serious man in nature. If you ever acted up in class you can bet he would know and be on your case quickly. Heck, it was like he had eyes in the back of his head! Speaking of his eyes, they were his strongest feature. A sharp, stormy gray-blue. They oftentimes seemed to shimmer or even grow in intensity. And when he gave you a “cold” look, why, I swear the temperature actually dropped! It was kinda scary, 'cause I got the impression that he had quite the temper, but that he was holding it back whenever he looked at you with those dangerous, piercing eyes. With absolutely no room for failure, he pressed and pressed his students year-round to be better and do better. Be it in class or personally, neither seemed out of his personal goals for instructing us. It got annoying at times, and made his class stressful at points, but, I had to appreciate it in the end. It really did work. Today he was wearing what we considered his “casual” ensemble. If he wasn't wearing a full-on suit to class, it was a dress shirt, tie, black slacks and dress shoes. The shirt was an icy blue in color, and the tie was pitch black. And, like always, he wore an open professor/graduation robe over his clothes. It fit the way he looked, I had to admit. I took a seat near the middle of the class but to the far left, right by a window. Rich swore under his breath and paled, glancing nervously at Mr. Mystral, who peeked up at his from a textbook he was reading. Rich swallowed hard and sat down in the seat next to mine, his cheeks coloring angrily at my chuckles. “I'll pants you on stage.” He threatened. “I'll knife you after the show.” Was my comeback. He seemed satisfied and looked away. When the bell rang for class to begin – and the last few stragglers rushed into class and practically fell into their seats – Mr. Mystral practically slammed his book shut. Or, the class was so quiet it sounded like he had slammed it. His wooden chair squealed on the tiled floor when he stood, like fingernails on a chalkboard, and his shoes made slow, rhythmic claps as he walked to his podium at the front of the classroom. Complete silence. I think we were literally all holding our breath as he flipped open a notebook and took attendance. There were times when, in this class, I had thought I could hear my own heart in my ears, even though it wasn't racing or beating hard at all. Awkward and eerily frightening. After sitting still for about one minute – which felt longer – I suddenly felt like I needed to be doing something. Not anything specific, just something, for crying out loud! I started tapping the wooden top of my desk, at first. And then, after that turned useless, I resorted to bouncing my leg up and down; pushing down with my sole and lifting my heel quickly. I really had no explanation for my sudden unrest. It was just, like, all of a sudden something felt wrong. It sent a weird, jittery, panicky feel through me, settling oddly in my stomach and making my heart race. Rich apparently noticed, because he tapped me on the shoulder and gave me a questioning look. I shrugged, and gave him a look of my own that told him how restless I felt. He nodded in understanding, and it was then that I noticed just how high strung he looked at the moment. In fact it wasn't long before he started tapping a pen erratically on the wooden desk. The quick, resounding cracks of the thick plastic meeting the wood sounded too loud in the classroom, and eyes turned to Rich as the pace of his tapping increased. Mr. Mystral looked up at last, and slowly lifted his head. Rich had yet to notice the attention that the class was giving him, as his was focused on the window and whatever was beyond it. For an eery moment my eyes were drawn to the glass, too. Mr. Mystral spoke up, “I would thank you, Mr. D'arc, for your impromptu concert,” Rich's head swivelled to face the teacher, and I followed suit, “however, I would ask you to save it for your show this evening.” Rich opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused almost in what appeared to be indecision. He finally decided against it and closed his mouth. I frowned as I looked from Rich to the teacher, thinking, How did ''he know?'' I, and the rest of the class, flinched when he slapped shut his notebook. He gave the whole class one of those “studying looks”. The kind where he tilts his head just a little, and looks at us all down the bridge of his nose. The look that said he was inspecting us. Determining. Taking three steps to his right, and never looking away from us, he threw his notebook back onto his desk and returned to his podium. I think we were all holding our breath. His lips parted, readying to speak, and the anticipation peaked. “Oral quiz.” he said. The class was smart enough not to groan or show any signs of irritation. His eyes roamed the classroom, “Mr. Galbaith,” his stormy eyes moved from the other side of the classroom to me, “in Hellenic, or, Greek, mythology, what was the Gigantomachy?” I had to silently thank him for pressing us to learn. “The Gigantomachy-” I started to answer, but I wasn't prepared, so my voice came out as a croak at first, making me feel suddenly self conscious. I sank into my chair, my hair falling around my eyes as my face started to heat up. A few stray snickers were silenced when Mr. Mystral simply looked in their direction. I shifted and sat back up, starting over when he gave me the look to continue. I'd had a moment to prepare, though, and answered, “The Gigantomachy was a war between the Gigantes and the Olympians. It took place, mythologically, after the Titanomachy. So, the Olympians were already in power. With the help of Heracles the Olympians defeated the Giants.” My teacher nodded, “Can you tell me how the war began? What their motives were?” I shifted uncomfortably and puffed out my cheeks as I exhaled, thinking back on my lessons. “Um . . after the Titans were thrown into Tartarus – well, most of them, anyway – Gaia incited her children, the Gigantes, to rise up in revenge for the Titans. Their motives, well, Gaia's motives, were to overthrow the Olympians.” Mr. Mystral sat on the edge of his desk, arms folded, and said, “Correct. Now, whether or not the Titans would have been restored to power is unknown. Some believe that the Golden Age would have been brought back, and Cronus crowned king once more. Others believe that Gaia wished for the Gigantes to rule as the new lords of the world. Had this been, it stands to reason that which Giant would become the new king?” he asked. His eyes narrowed on Rich, who paled. “Um . .” he stuttered, wracking his mind for the answer, “that would be, ah . . Alcyoneus?” Mr. Mystral took notice of his hesitation, but nodded, “Indeed. And how was he killed, Ms. Teague?” he asked a girl in the middle of the room. She looked around the room as she attempted to remember the details of the myth, “He, uh . . he was immortal in his own land, Pallene, so Heracles had to pick him up and carry him over the border to kill him.” “Correct.” our teacher said. He paused in thought for a moment before saying, “You heard me say the word 'Hellenic' a moment ago. Can anyone remember the term's mythological origin?” Let me tell you, there was no way I was about to answer. I knew what the answer was, I just didn't want to raise my hand or anything. But, before anyone had a chance to answer anyway, the intercom came to life, and the woman in the main office said, “All teachers, this is a schoolwide lockdown. Close and lock your doors, let nobody in or out of the classrooms. I repeat, this is a schoolwide lockdown!” she instructed urgently. My heartbeat thundered in my ears and hammered in my chest. The feeling of anxiety shot through the roof. My grip tightened on the edge of my desk as she finished, not knowing why I felt so afraid. Something very, very bad was closing in. Category:Hellen, Father of the West Category:Original Idea